Memoirs
of a Runaway
A Story of Hope
Written by Michael Kennon
and Based on a True Story
Michael Kennon
Memoirs of a Runaway:
A Story of Hope
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright 2010 Michael Kennon
Cover Photo 2010 Michael Kennon.
All rights reserved – used with permission.
Contact the author and check for additional projects
through this site; http://www.memoirsofarunaway.com
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Memoirs of a Runaway
dedications
to my angels-
mom, thanks for being the one constant in my life,
mark, thanks for being my best friend.
cassidy, besides god, you were my hope and reason for
being,
my loving wife, your love and continued devotion
gives me courage and strength,
i love my life with you.
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Michael Kennon
acknowledgements
debra markowitz,
this book would not be possible without you.
henik host-madsen for posing on the cover.
to all in this book: it is with great honor and gratitude
that i tell this story. my life would not have been the same
without you.
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Memoirs of a Runaway
Prelude
T
hought maybe I should be getting back
on the road again, but for different
reasons this time. For the first time, I am
no longer running or hiding, but just wanting to get some
fresh air and take a little break from work. Or rather
change where I do what I do and make it mean so much
more. There’s a lot that keeps me here now, but that wasn’t
always the case.
At 45, my memory isn’t what it once was; brain cells
left at too many clubs and with too many nights of
indulgence, but remnants of the feelings still remain. I
can’t fathom how I survived and know that someone was
looking after me. I find myself on the verge of my 46th
birthday, wanting to document. Wanting to put the pieces
together to help myself and to maybe help someone else.
Surely, I could not have lived through what I did without
a concrete reason for it happening. And even with things
being as good as they are, I still screw up.
5
Michael Kennon
Chapter 1
2005
O
n Sue’s 40th birthday I asked her what she
wanted. Her only request was tickets for
a Cubs’ game. That sounded great, as I
O
am also a fan. Distractions and becoming preoccupied
seemed to consume me each day. I was trying to confront
issues of why I was finding it impossible to move on. I
O
was getting tired of glorifying my past and telling people
the story of my life. I was still avoiding the issues that
kept me from being my best. Around Memorial Day, two
weeks before Sue’s birthday, I still had not gotten the
tickets. I tucked my tail between my legs, went up to her
and again asked, ‚So, what else do you want to do for
your birthday?‛
I could see the look of frustration on her face as she
answered, ‚You waited until two weeks before the game
to get tickets?‛
I knew I was in trouble with her and was even more
aware that I was getting too comfortable in this
relationship and not giving it the attention it deserved. I
didn’t want to be a disappointment to someone again. Sue
and I had been together for almost five years and in my
history of relationships, by now I would have done
something to sabotage things. But I was very happy in our
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Memoirs of a Runaway
relationship and I knew the time had come to deal with my
mountain or God.
I called some friends that might have been able to get
last minute tickets to the game, but they all came up
empty. Scanning through websites to see if anyone had
turned in tickets in the last minute was a bust. Although
not giving up, I faced up to Sue that I had blown it.
I had learned to pray to God for many things so I
figured that asking for Cubs tickets might seem a bit
trivial, but it wasn’t just the tickets that were riding on this.
First, I argued with myself trying to avoid feeling guilty.
Even Sue was not that mad, just disappointed. Something
in me knew that I should not give up. So I spoke to God as
plainly as I’m writing this on my laptop. ‚Lord, I know
that I am not doing my best right now. I know that I just
think about myself all the time. It’s just a defense
mechanism when I say that I’ve had such a hard time in
my life that I don’t know how to give to others anymore. I
want to think of others and be able to give more, but I just
don’t know how to tear down this wall that I’ve built up
inside of me. I’m tired of asking for things for myself all
the time; I want to be a giver. I promise if you get Cubs
tickets for me, I’ll start to work on my past and try not to
be so selfish anymore.‛ I had a million conversations with
God by now, so I just talked to Him like He was one of my
buddies. By this time in my life, I had suspicions that
without God or a Guardian Angel there was no way I
would have made it this far. I did not know God, I did not
know I could trust God, I wasn’t even sure if I believed in
God, but I knew that I was either very lucky or someone
was watching over me.
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Michael Kennon
What I did know was that the next day was Sue’s
birthday. Sitting in front of my computer on Saturday
evening trying to think of what I was going to do to make
up for this, I thought that maybe I would take her dancing.
That would be a miracle in itself for me. Maybe a fancy
restaurant would work. I went to Cubs.com, and I stared
at the site and thought, ‚Wow, there are two tickets for
sale, but I know this has to be wrong.‛ I had done this
before when they say tickets are available, but you go to
buy them and they’re gone already. I looked a little closer
to see that they were on the third base line just five rows
up from the Cub’s dugout. Even if they are real, I figured,
they were going to cost at least $1,000. So I checked.
Hmm, I thought. It says they’re on sale for the regular
price. I knew it was just a teaser, but I figured that I would
try to catch the carrot for the heck of it. I whipped out my
credit card and hit the Accept button. ‚Congratulations on
your purchase,‛ the website replied. ‚Your confirmation
has been sent.‛ Staring at the screen, I thought to myself,
‚No way!‛
Sue and I took the train down to Wrigley Field. We left
with enough time so we could arrive at least two hours
early because we were so excited and because we wanted
to beat the crowd. As we walked inside, a man with a
clipboard walked up to me and said, ‚Would you like to
participate in a promotional deal with the Cubs?‛
‚I’d love to,‛ I replied, ‚but this is Sue’s birthday, and
this would be a thrill for her.‛
‚That’s great,‛ the man said. ‚Well, let me explain
what this is about. We’ll take you up to the actual room
where we take the players to have them sign contracts and
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Memoirs of a Runaway
have you sign some release forms. Then we’ll pick a
position for you and take you down to the field. You’ll go
out onto the field and take that player’s position. Then the
player will take the field, come out to you, sign a baseball
for you and then you’ll come back off the field.‛
As I looked at him, listening intently, my gaze turned
to Sue who looked like an excited 12-year-old on her 40th
birthday. She looked as giddy as a schoolgirl. I took tons
of pictures and even got one of her name on the
scoreboard taking the catcher’s position. Later that day,
Joe Girardi got the winning hit. He was the catcher that
Sue got to stand with on Wrigley Field. He’s the one that
signed her baseball and even thanked her for coming out
when we knew that it was a miracle that we were even
there.
After that day, I started reflecting more on the past and
thought, luck or not, I had better not take a chance that
God does not exist and maybe I should stop ignoring him.
I started contemplating what I was supposed to do,
wondering whether I should talk to Him like he was my
own personal psychiatrist or tell someone else about my
past so that it could help me sort some things out.
Already having gone to counselors, psychiatrists and
men of the cloth before and explaining, telling and
confessing everything, I wondered what it would take to
finally work things out. I’ve had one relationship after
another, and I was aware that I had used them in order to
find myself. Sometimes I latched on so tightly that I
suffocated the ones I loved or didn’t give them the time of
day when they needed me most. Basically, I ended up
hurting everyone I had ever been involved with.
9
Michael Kennon
I had thought about blocking things out and ignoring
everything that had happened. That’s what a lot of people
do and what I had always done. Maybe I needed to help
someone else so that I could help myself. Maybe that’s
why things never got permanently resolved. It seemed
like it had been so long since I’d really laughed or felt like
the world was not coming to an end. I wanted to feel free
again.
So, reflecting on Sue’s birthday and the miracle of the
Cub’s tickets, remembering all I had been through to get
where I am but knowing I’ve still not quite made it, I bring
myself back to the present moment.
I am filled with so much anticipation that it feels like I
cannot breathe. As much as I have moved on, something
still needs to be done; I feel it, I live it. Maybe I’m
supposed to do more than just get over it. So I sit here on
the deck of our new home with my laptop perched on the
picnic table and stare out at the sunset as it glistens over
the lake. Though life seems perfect, maybe I need to go
back and tell you about when it wasn’t always so<
10
Memoirs of a Runaway
Chapter 2
1971
M
y mom called me Michael, sometimes
Mike. The kids called me Mikie.
They would taunt me. Compared me
to the kid in the commercial that didn’t like anything. Or
they’d call me, Michael, Michael Motorcycle, and I’d say,
‚Yeah, he’s cool, I want to be like him,‛ or ‚yeah, that’s
me.‛ I didn’t have hard feelings though. I don’t think it
was reverse psychology, it was just who I was.
It was a good life in Crystal Lake, Illinois. There were
a lot of kids in the neighborhood, and Dad put a basketball
hoop up in the driveway for all of us, though Mark, my
brother, was too young and small to play. He was only
four, and at the time, small for his age.
I remember staying up late at night and reading
Peanuts. Snoopy was the coolest, but I felt like Charlie
Brown. Like him, I wanted to have a lot of friends and be
around people, but it often felt like I could do nothing
right. It didn’t help that I was hyperactive from ages five
to fourteen and had to be on Ritalin during that time
period. I remember a story my mom told me about a
neighbor wanting to come over to escape from her cat who
was in heat. As they sat there sipping lemonade, they
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Michael Kennon
watched me swinging like Tarzan from tree to tree. Like
most children, I didn’t know the meaning of mortality, but
being hyperactive as well made me consistent in my
escapades. The neighbor stayed for half an hour and
finally said, ‚Jan, I appreciate the break, but your son is
surely going to drive me crazy if I have to watch him much
longer. I’ll take my chances with the cat.‛ And off she
went.
But life seemed pretty good regardless of my quirks. I
was a capable athlete; several kids on the block and I
played running games, and I was one of the fastest in the
group. Being a creative, resourceful young man, I was
always building things or taking them apart. Some of the
things I created were a bit on the mischievous side. Being
younger, Mark would go along with a lot of my schemes. I
came up with the idea of calling random people and telling
them that I was a lost little boy who was scared out of my
wits and waiting at a convenience store. Ten out of twelve
of these unsuspecting participants would go to the 7-11 to
try and help me. I’m not proud of that now, but I see how
it was the basis for what I was to become – good and bad –
in the years ahead. My aunt used to tell me that I could
sell ice to the Eskimos; a great trait when used in the
correct way, but as it came to be known, I didn’t always
use it properly.
When the summers came, I would spend them at my
grandmother’s house in the Ozarks. Dolly was my Dad’s
mom, and she was loved by everyone. For as long as I
could remember, my grandmother had snow white hair,
though she always kept it shoulder length and stylish. She
never denied her age and always took pride in her
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Memoirs of a Runaway
appearance. She was short and round and seemed like a
grandmother everyone could love with her great
disposition and genuine smile. Grandma Dolly loved bird
watching and loved people even more. When she would
come back from the many walks she enjoyed, she would
tell me about which birds she saw. I learned to water-ski
at Grandma Dolly’s when I was seven. Another summer, I
built a sailboat out of Styrofoam and lumber that I had
found. Grandma always had a kind word and took great
interest in my dreams and fantasies.
Neighbors and friends would come down to their
cabins almost every weekend in this resort area. The
friends that vacationed next to my grandmother had a
daughter named Candy. She was a pretty girl with long,
straight black hair all the way down her back. She was
always a little mischievous, and we would spend a great
deal of time together talking, sharing and doing impish
things. Candy was my first experience with puppy love.
Although I was a busybody, I was a pretty good kid. I saw
Candy on and off from age 7 until I was about 13. She was
the first girl I kissed. When she gave me a puff off of her
cigarette, I acted like I had done it before. I was afraid of
getting caught, but I did not let on. I was infatuated with
Candy, and we would spend hours together kissing under
the dock. Summers were paradise for me in the Ozarks.
Besides the A.D.H.D., I would also discover that I had
food, chemical and inhalant allergies. I was especially
allergic to dust, mold and house mites. I had a horrible
diet, which didn’t help things, and my energy level was off
the charts. But still I remember a great childhood. My
mom, Jan, was a successful RN, wife and mother. She and
13
Michael Kennon
my father had a wonderful relationship. I assumed it
would always remain that way and that, one day, I would
have a relationship like them.
I later learned that my dad was hyperactive too. What
I remember of him was that he was a great writer,
published author and excelled in every task he took on.
Mom used to say that he had a real knack for making the
reader feel that he was talking directly to them. And I do
remember the newscasts from the local radio stations.
When I played baseball, I would imagine my dad
narrating the games and being so proud when I’d strike
someone out or pitch a no-hitter. Dad was the Vice
President of Public Relations for Union Oil, a high position
for a large company, where he got to use his people and
writing skills.
Dad was always active. He smoked three packs of
cigarettes a day, but 2-1/2 of them sat in the ashtray
burning as he worked on one project or another.
He loved to travel, and I still have great photos from
vacations we took at Bush Gardens, the Ozarks to see his
mom, and Vandalia to see my aunt on my mother’s side. I
think my love of traveling was fostered by the family trips
we would take and the happiness we shared at each
adventure.
My dad got sick when I was 10. He was sick for
months with a brain tumor. It wasn’t easy to watch your
hero wither away, but as a child, you always hope for the
best. Sometimes though, there is no denying the truth. As
I was sent off to spend an entire afternoon with my Uncle
Eddie, I waved goodbye to my dad. He did not look well,
but I tried to shake it out of my mind. This was one of the
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Memoirs of a Runaway
very few memories I have of spending any significant time
alone with my uncle. But even though we had fun, I felt
anxious. As my uncle dropped me off, my mom came up
to me and said that we needed to talk. My heart sank as I
knew what would follow. My dad had passed away.
Dead at the age of 43. The feelings were both intense
sadness but also relief that he didn’t suffer anymore.
Through the tears I began remembering the good times.
My favorite was going to the carnival with my dad and
having him slip me $10 while telling me, ‚Don’t tell your
mother.‛ We would share a knowing wink, and I would
run off to the rides and arcade. We lived on a dead-end
street, and sometimes Dad would let me sit on his lap and
steer the car around the end.
The papers made a big deal out of Dad dying. ‚Ex-
Newsman Dies at 43. Leslie G. Kennon, Was PR
Executive.‛ The clipping went on to talk about Dad’s
accomplishments. It’s one of the few clippings I have from
my dad. Unfortunately, it also happened to be his
obituary. Somehow, the columns he wrote had
disappeared.
When he died, I blamed him for leaving us, and I
blamed God for taking him away. I would dream about
him returning to us and would feel loved and encouraged
as if he were watching over me – but I wanted more. In
the early sun, I realized it was just a dream and while I’d
like to believe he visited me, I was angry that it was not
real.
When I thought of my father, I thought of love and of
success. I wanted to be an accomplished man like my
father. I always knew I would be and although I didn’t
15
Michael Kennon
know at what, I felt like it was written in the stars. While I
would have those visions and feel hope, the other side of
me felt alone and abandoned. Because while dreams are
nice, I knew my father was not coming back and that my
mother, my brother and I were now on our own.
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Memoirs of a Runaway
Chapter 3
T
he years after Dad’s death, we did the best we
could to survive the trauma. Mom was
always busy, and I was a busy body. Mom
was very much in love with my father, and it was apparent
that there was a huge hole in her life. She kept up a strong
front, but you could see that she was missing